Author: Cleo Coyle
Published: September 22, 2026 by Berkley
Format: Kindle, 400 Pages
Genre: Amateur Sleuth
Series: Coffeehouse Mystery #22
Blurb: Years ago, when master roaster Clare Cosi was a newly divorced mom raising her daughter, Joy, Ava Welsh became Joy's best friend. Now the painfully shy girl next door has grown into a successful New York businesswoman, and Clare is delighted to be catering Ava's coffee-themed party, especially when her boyfriend, Ryan, confides his plan to propose that very night.
Then a scream shatters the celebration. A woman is thrown off the balcony to her death, and Ryan—who abruptly flees the party—is accused of murder. Clare vows to help Ava clear his name.
Her digging uncovers suspicious connections to a deadly event from which a teenaged Joy and Ava barely escaped with their lives. The stakes rise ever higher as a ruthless killer attempts to keep the ugly truth buried—even if it means sending Clare and her caffeinated crew six feet under.
My Opinion: Twenty-two books in, and I’m committed to seeing this series through, since at this point it’s less a reading habit and more a relationship. But even in a relationship, you can feel when the spark dims a little, and Eat, Drink, and Get Buried lands in that “we’re still together, but… hmm” category.
This installment moves slowly, padded with filler, repetition, and bits of history that took me out of the story. And the miscommunication trope? It’s everywhere. By the halfway mark, I started mentally ticking off which cozy mystery tropes Cleo Coyle might reach for next, only to realize the answer was: apparently all of them.
Normally, this series sends me straight to the coffee bar. I’ll be halfway through a chapter and suddenly craving a latte like my life depends on it. But this time? Nothing. Not even a whisper of “go make a cup.” That alone tells you something was missing.
The familiar cast felt oddly passive; they were all standing around waiting for someone else to tell them what to do to move the plot forward. By the end, I realized I’d lost interest, not dramatically, just quietly, the way you set a book down and forget where you left it. There was no spark, no pull, no caffeinated buzz. I’ll probably forget the plot by next month, and that’s saying something for a series I’ve stuck with this long.
And then there’s the ending, like this add-on, for instance. Instead of wrapping things up, the reader is given an epilogue, then the authors tack on a multiple-page cookbook. I’m not sure if it was meant for a select few or to inflate the page count, but goodness, that was a lot of pages most readers will flip past with a polite “no, thank you.”
Not a terrible entry, just a middling one, that was familiar enough to finish, but not enough to savor.
Then a scream shatters the celebration. A woman is thrown off the balcony to her death, and Ryan—who abruptly flees the party—is accused of murder. Clare vows to help Ava clear his name.
Her digging uncovers suspicious connections to a deadly event from which a teenaged Joy and Ava barely escaped with their lives. The stakes rise ever higher as a ruthless killer attempts to keep the ugly truth buried—even if it means sending Clare and her caffeinated crew six feet under.
My Opinion: Twenty-two books in, and I’m committed to seeing this series through, since at this point it’s less a reading habit and more a relationship. But even in a relationship, you can feel when the spark dims a little, and Eat, Drink, and Get Buried lands in that “we’re still together, but… hmm” category.
This installment moves slowly, padded with filler, repetition, and bits of history that took me out of the story. And the miscommunication trope? It’s everywhere. By the halfway mark, I started mentally ticking off which cozy mystery tropes Cleo Coyle might reach for next, only to realize the answer was: apparently all of them.
Normally, this series sends me straight to the coffee bar. I’ll be halfway through a chapter and suddenly craving a latte like my life depends on it. But this time? Nothing. Not even a whisper of “go make a cup.” That alone tells you something was missing.
The familiar cast felt oddly passive; they were all standing around waiting for someone else to tell them what to do to move the plot forward. By the end, I realized I’d lost interest, not dramatically, just quietly, the way you set a book down and forget where you left it. There was no spark, no pull, no caffeinated buzz. I’ll probably forget the plot by next month, and that’s saying something for a series I’ve stuck with this long.
And then there’s the ending, like this add-on, for instance. Instead of wrapping things up, the reader is given an epilogue, then the authors tack on a multiple-page cookbook. I’m not sure if it was meant for a select few or to inflate the page count, but goodness, that was a lot of pages most readers will flip past with a polite “no, thank you.”
Not a terrible entry, just a middling one, that was familiar enough to finish, but not enough to savor.
